I felt almost Biggles-ish as I put on my headphones and microphone and strapped myself in. Taking off was amazing and the dip forward once we were in the air would have been a bit of a shock if Hubby hadn't warned me about it and the other strange sensation was when we banked right and I found myself looking vertically at the ground as it fell away. Once we were up though - well. No words are truly fitting! Essex sank below us and what took its place was a panarama of fields and villages and hamlets and cars the size of ants. I was amazed at how many people have swimming pools in their back gardens! We had to stop at a small local airport for refuelling so we had to disembark. I took several photos of small aircraft and a large hangar featuring the phrase 'Area 51' (to anyone not in the know that's the American airforce's worst kept secret where there have been all kind of links wih UFOs and other strange aerial phenomena). Then we were back in and on our way to London.


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My editor, Chris, actually moves his hand sideways as he says this as though the words will appear in the air.

“A writer’s favourite two words to write,” Sid, my agent, says. “I imagine.”

“You’re correct,” I, the writer, tell him. “For the second book I wrote those first just to experience the joyful elation they bring. Unfortunately I still had eighty thousand words to write.”

“Why didn’t you write them for the first book?” Chris asks.

“What do you mean?”

We’re sitting in the café that has become our regular meeting place in the last three months. Not that we meet often. Chris has James Hardy to worry about. He leans forward. “Clear History. The book we’re actually publishing now.”

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It's no good. Today was never going to be my day. I woke in a foul mood, snappy as a handbag, and didn't improve as the hours wore on. I wrote a few words, not quite 500. I finished re-reading A bit on the side by William Trevor. I shopped, and chored my way through the afternoon. All day I have been struck by the thought that you have to be heartless to be a writer. To write truthfully and meaningfully, with compassion, you have to put aside all qualms about articulating pain and provoking it in your reader.


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Sylvia and I had a great night in on Sunday; we spent four hours rabbitting on about our school-days and old friends, family and God-knows-what-else. The only strange thing about it (to some people) is that I was in Glasgow, and she, in the vicinity of Chesterfield. Boy, can we talk on the phone; we had toilet and coffee breaks, and she had a bottle of wine and probably about a thousand fags – we broke off before the call reached the hour limits so it cost nothing. The sensible, older woman – that’s us. Yeah right!

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Wired guru Chris Anderson has identified what he calls ‘The Long Tail’ phenomenon which suggests that our culture and economy are shifting from the steep curve of over-hyped big hit products to a long tail of niche products - lots and lots of them.
Charlie Brooker describes pretty much the same thing when he calls this ‘an age of dazzling consumer choice in which the customer is routinely indulged like a spoilt medieval prince’.

Driving the change is the rise of the internet and a corresponding increase in the time people spend in front of their computers. The PC is the new goggle-box, or rather, Google-box.

It’s all a bit scary for paunchy middle-aged ad agency types who are being forced to reinvent themselves: remembering to wear their baseball caps backwards and learning to speak techno as the world lurches from traditional aggregated media to a more fragmented landscape.

For everyone else it’s enormous fun as we become aficionados of midget Jello-wrestling and discover our very own Pentonville handles at prisonbitchname.com (Harry Hung Horse, in case you were wondering). There’s a site for everyone. And his dog (shorty.com/bonsaikitten/).

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Feeling terribly blank and somewhat useless today, I must admit, so am taking my double-dose of Vitamin B pills, plus my De-Stress ones and the Evening Primrose Oil. Ye gods, you’d think that would be enough to stop the slide, but who can tell … Must be the shock of having to come into work after a day away. Talking of which, last night’s opera – Gounod’s Romeo & Juliet – was very good. Incredibly lush and romantic and the soprano had a voice to die for. But the set and costumes were all terribly terribly (how very Surrey I’m getting …) black. In fact, everything was black or dark shades of grey. Apart from the big orange balls and the little orange balloons which occasionally appeared. Really I would have liked more colour – certainly at the beginning where everyone’s happy. They are at a party after all. Still, I’m glad we’ve seen it, though it doesn’t have tunes you hum along to on the way home ...


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If I was to say 'High School' what would you think I was referring to? State Secondary? Mixed? Single sex? This is for a story set in the UK.


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I am feeling a bit down today. The day seemed to start well enough, getting up early-ish for me (before 9am), which left me with a feeling of great possibility. But by 10.30, a gloom had settled: I was hot, irritable, feeling unproductive, uncreative. I fell back, I am ashamed to say, on that old mood-lifter, Scrabulous. It gives me that adrenalin rush, that mental stimulation that I crave... but it WASTES TIME, and so I then feel guilty about it........

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I've got into trouble before now for saying that I don't read fiction when I'm writing. It's true that all good writers were voracious readers first, and it's true that a surprising number of people say they want to write, without seeming to know that reading is a pre-requisite. I've had manuscripts to report on which made me wonder quite seriously if the writer had ever read a book (and no, most recent clients, if you're reading this, it wasn't you...). And it's not just for trainee writers: as I was saying in Alive, kicking and joining in the game, for the whole of a writer's life reading and writing are like the two halves of the human body which that life inhabits. We scoff (quietly, I hope) at the neophyte writer's fear of 'being influenced' - any writer worth their salt should want to be influenced by the greats, and by the contemporary masters/mistresses of their branch of the craft, whether it's Thomas Mann or Marian Keyes.

So when I pause a writing day for lunch and open a history book, am I failing to practising what I preach?

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A day in lieu from work today - hurrah! Though it does mean I have to face the mountain of having to go in on a Thursday, cue future groaning. Ah well, there's two whole days to go before then, so let's not cross that bridge, etc etc ... Anyway, I've had a lovely morning, meeting Jane H (hello, Jane!) in Guildford for brunch at the Slug & Lettuce. There was a scary moment however when I was crossing the road to get to the cafe, and a mad woman in full wedding party get-up starting shouting and swearing at me. Perhaps she's read one of my books? A distinct possibility, I feel ... I think my great sin was in crossing the road when she apparently hadn't been able to, even though there was zilch traffic so her way was clear. Guildford is obviously full of mad women in party frocks and hats today - so I huddled next to the S&L until Jane rescued me. Thank you, Jane! Also, thank you to Jane x3 for (a) buying brunch, (b) a great catch-up and (c) giving me my first birthday present, which I opened early. Shame on me indeed. But a wonderful card (too rude to note here, naturally ...) and the Emergency Chocolate rations will come in very handy. Possibly on Thursday!...


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